The Midnight Hour
by Ink Spotz
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is missing, and John Watson was the last person that saw him. Now, he is being tried for the disappearance (and possible murder) of the great detective. John knows he's innocent, but no one believes him. John realizes that he is the only one that can figure out who the real culprit is. But how can he when his mind resets itself every day at midnight?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Here it was. It was that time of day once more.

Was everything ready?

John looked at his desk. Yep, everything was there. His journal was already out and opened to the introductory section so that it would draw him into reading it. He allowed his eyes to linger on his scrawls for a second. He managed to read the first sentence before he tore his eyes away.

"_Your name is John Hamish Watson, and you have just forgotten your whole life again."_

That introductory sentence was burned into his mind, branded there until the hour struck. Why he couldn't seem to remember his day after midnight struck was a mystery to him. He went through the facts really quickly in his head before he forgot them again. He had served the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers for many years as a medical doctor. Once he had retired respectfully from the army with an injury, he took up refuge with Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest (and only) consulting detective. They built a good reputation for themselves. Sherlock was known as the mastermind, and John was known as his partner, the blogger. He didn't mind it. He enjoyed writing down Sherlock's achievements for the public to read, and applaud him for. However, as of late, the great detective was missing. No one had any idea where he had disappeared to. Apparently John had been the last person with him, and was now being tried for his disappearance. He was being investigated. The only reason they were now waiting on his trial was because his mind kept resetting itself.

"They think you're insane, John," he muttered, walking over to the window where the maroon curtain billowed in the cool evening breeze. "They think that your PTSD has caused you to become a psychopath."

John allowed his gaze to linger on the buildings, that had been transformed to the shadows with the night. Stars twinkled into view overhead; bright sparks of light dull in comparison to the lamp the moon was. A few people were lingering on the sidewalks, talking to one another. No one seemed to notice him standing in the window, his form lit up by the lamps that were softly glowing inside the flat of 221B Baker Street.

John looked down at his wristwatch. Two more minutes until the reset. The least he could do was try to figure out what happened to Sherlock again.

Sherlock Holmes had disappeared over three weeks ago, the same time that John's mind started its funky reset thing. John tried hard to remember the facts that led up to his disappearance. All he could seem to remember were snatches. He remembered the cabin they were going to investigate as part of the case they were working on. Sherlock had gotten a call the previous day with a case from a woman, Miss Murans, who swear she saw a ghost stealing her belongings. Sherlock had been intrigued and had gone over there since he was bored. Unfortunately, that was where John's recollection came to its end. He didn't remember anything else after that.

All he knew was, whatever had transpired, he was now no longer able to retain his memories, and Sherlock was missing.

One minute to go.

John sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. He was discouraged with himself. His mind should be stronger than this, especially after all the time that he had spent with Sherlock solving cases. His mind should be sharp not dull; attentive not forgetful. He always wondered what Sherlock would do if he were in his shoes. If Sherlock was the one who kept forgetting everything, and was being tried for the murder of his partner-in-detecting, what would he do? How would he go about solving this matter?

Quickly, before the hour struck, John decided what his best plan of action might be in terms of finding out where Sherlock was. John raced over to his journal and flipped to a clean sheet in the back. He picked up the pen that lay idle beside it, and started to write down all of the questions that he had, and were determined to answer. He would write down all the aspects of the case that needed to be investigated so he would have it still, even after his mind reset.

_Go over every facet of the case again...leave no detail unattended._

_Investigate everyone involved – Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Anderson, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Miss Murans, __everyone!_

_Why am I being framed for murder, and by whom? Is it a ghost from my past?_

_If it is someone from my past, why are they coming after me now? What have I done to cause them to still harbor animosity toward me after all these years?_

_Could it be another game of Moriarty's? If so, what is his catch this time?_

_Why do I have so many questions, and so little answers?_

_What would Sherlock do?_

John placed the pen down. He knew that it was almost time for the hour to come about. Sighing, he looked at the framed picture of Sherlock that sat on the desk. It was a picture of the two of them, standing together, happy. They had just finished solving one of their cases, and were getting mobbed by the paparazzi as they snapped photos. John smiled. This picture just made him more determined. His best friend was out there somewhere, and he needed help. He would find his Sherlock, or fail in the attempt. The only thing he was certain about, just as the hour started to chime, was that he was not the one who had kidnapped Sherlock.

It was now midnight. He looked around himself in confusion. What was going on? Why wasn't he asleep? Why was he standing beside his desk?

He looked down at the desk to see the writing that he had just written, but that he couldn't remember. He read it, furrowing his brow in puzzlement. What did this mean? He flipped to the beginning of the notebook as he took a seat.

"_Your name is John Hamish Watson, and you have just forgotten your whole life again."_

And just like the day before, it began again for John.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was nine in the morning by the time John finished re-reading the journal. It wasn't that he wrote an enormous amount of material that was hard to read in one sitting; it was just the fact that it was midnight when he started reading and he had to catch snatches of sleep somewhere. He had used his journal as a pillow once in a while last night, too tired to keep his eyes open, but still alert enough that he didn't want to leave the journal behind.

John staggered into the kitchen, his mind whirring with all the memories that he had repacked into his brain. He started to make himself some tea as he mulled the facts over. They appeared like a list within his mind.

_The Facts I Know As of Now_

_Sherlock Holmes is missing, and has been for three weeks._

_I was the last person to be seen with him._

_I am being tried for his disappearance (and possible murder since it has been three weeks)._

_No one believes I'm innocent because my brain resets itself at midnight._

_I am the only one who will be able to clear my name, and find Sherlock._

This last fact was true. Since no one believed him, he would have to figure out what happened to Sherlock on his own, and he was determined to do so. He poured himself a cup of tea once he had prepared it, and walked back in to look at the journal. He flipped to the back page and looked at his list of questions that he had written. None of them had answers yet apparently, and it was time to start getting the answers.

John picked up his mobile, and turned it on. He scrolled through his contact list until he reached Lestrade's number. He knew it was relatively early in the morning still, but he didn't feel bad calling because the Yard started working early. Lestrade picked up on the third ring.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

"Lestrade, it's John."

Lestrade let out a sigh on the other end of the phone. He was the one that was, after all, conducting the investigation into Sherlock's disappearance, and was therefore conducting the case against John.

"Did you remember something about the case?"

"No," admitted John, still ashamed that his mind was not strong enough to recollect anything that had happened that day. "I have too many questions. I was wondering if you might have some of the answers."

"John, you know I can't help you out. It would be considered messing with the case, and the only witness. I could get in trouble."

"At least tell me where you picked me up that night," said John. "Where did you find me?"

Lestrade let out another sigh. John could hear the faint strains of other telephones as they rang. Obviously, Lestrade was very busy, but John was hoping that he wasn't too busy that he couldn't help him out with this.

"After you two were missing for over twenty-four hours, we managed to find you a couple blocks away from Miss Murans' cabin, by the costume shop."

As Lestrade talked, John took out a pen and flipped to another clean sheet in the journal, beginning to draw a map of some sorts. He drew a rough sketch of 221B, and marked it as the starting place with an "X". He then proceeded to draw a line from 221B across the sheet and drew a rough sketch of Miss Murans' cabin, connecting the line to that. After that, he drew a costume shop a little ways away, marking it with "PT. 1", then drew a line to connect that. Somewhere between the cabin and PT. 1 something had happened. John circled this area, and let out a soft hum of thought. The first thing he would do is go investigate that area to see if he was able to remember anything or he could somehow find some kind of clue that might have been overlooked.

"John, are you still there?"

"What?...Yes, sorry. I was just writing it down."

"Still having trouble remembering then?"

"Unfortunately," sighed John.

"John, I hate to break this kind of news to you over the phone, but you do realize that the trial will have to happen eventually, and probably sooner rather than later if your condition won't improve."

"I know," said John grimly, hanging his head. "I realize that there is work that must be done."

"Is that all, John?"

John still couldn't believe that no one believed he was innocent. Everyone thought he was guilty. He sighed.

"Yes, that's it for now."

With that, the line went dead. John hung up the phone, and placed it aside, studying the map he had sketched once more. He picked up his journal, and carried it with him towards the door. He wouldn't be able to solve anything while he was moping around the flat. He had to get out and do something while he still had time. He slipped into his coat, and started to descend the stairs.

On his way downstairs, Mrs. Hudson appeared. She stood at the end of the stairs, a sad smile on her face.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson," said John, trying to be polite.

"I see you must have already read your journal then," said Mrs. Hudson.

John nodded, self-consciously tucking the journal up higher under his arm.

"Yes, I did."

John then noted a small piece of paper that Mrs. Hudson had in her hands. She crinkled the paper in her hands tightly, as if she feared that John really was a psychopath, and would do her harm.

"Mrs. Hudson," said John softly. "I would never hurt you. I would never hurt anyone for that matter."

Mrs. Hudson attempted a weak smile, nodding. John wasn't sure if she believed him though.

"Is that a list in your hand, Mrs. Hudson?"

She nodded again, looking down at the crinkled ball of paper in her hands that had once been her list. John could see now that she was all dressed in a coat and hat, and had no doubt, been about to leave when he had come downstairs.

"I could get it for you if you wish, Mrs. Hudson. I'm going out today anyway."

"No. It's quite alright, John. I can do it myself, but thank you for the offer anyway. It was very sweet of you."

He nodded.

"Anytime, Mrs. Hudson."

With that, he turned and walked out the door. He couldn't bear to look at the fear on her face anymore. He had to change everyone's opinion on him.

He hailed a cab, and took it to the location of Miss Murans' cabin, which he had thankful marked in his journal. He sat flipping through the pages and reviewing the facts while he waited to arrive. Going over his lists, and looking at his maps, he started to try to once again, remember what had happened that day three weeks ago.

* * *

"_Must you record _everything?_" asked Sherlock as he looked over at John, his nose crinkling slightly._

"_Yes," said John as he looked up from his writing. He looked into the inquiring blue eyes of his best friend, and gave him a smile. "I don't want to record the facts wrong when I blog it later, and I'm sure you don't wish that either."_

_Sherlock let out a soft sigh, turning to face his attention out the window._

"_This might not even be a case worth recording," remarked Sherlock. "It seems very simplistic in nature."_

"_Come now, Sherlock. She's talking about a ghost stealing her possessions."_

"_John, she's talking about someone stealing her possessions that she merely cannot see, nor catch. It's hardly enough of a basis to say a ghost stole her possessions."_

"_So, you think a man did it?"_

"_Don't tell me that you entertain the existence of ghosts?" snorted Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "The notion is utterly ridiculous, John."_

"_I realize that, Sherlock, and I'm not saying that I do believe in ghosts," said John, trying to delicately make his point with the detective. "All I'm saying is, that Miss Murans believes that a ghost is responsible, and it could turn out to be something bigger than that."_

_Sherlock looked at John._

"_A ghost to her may be something entirely different to us. With that fact, I agree with you."_

_John smiled in victory. At least he had managed to get Sherlock to agree with him on a point._

"_People entertain such strange fantasies sometimes, John. That's why it's our job to look at the facts, and figure out the truth."_

* * *

"Is this your stop, sir?" asked the cabbie, sounding irritated. He probably was on some level because he had just asked the question for the fifth time.

John looked up at the cabbie, happy that he had been able to remember something from that day. He would have to record it down before it slipped from his memory again.

"Yes, sorry." He quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out some change, placing it in his hand. "Thank you."

John got out of the cab, and looked at the skeleton of the cabin. It loomed ahead of him into the bright new day, empty and ominous. As the cab drove off, John made sure his journal was tucked safely underneath his arm before walking toward it. What had happened to them once they had gotten here? John closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember, but coming up with nothing.

John cursed under his breath, looking at the path that wound toward the right. If his map he had drawn, and the information that Lestrade had given him was correct, then John had ended up being found in the small town a few miles away from the cabin.

"Time to take a walk, John," he said out loud to himself. "At least it's a nice day to do so."

As John started to walk down the dirt path, the trees loomed up on either side of him, casting their elongated shadows across the path and forest around him. John kept an eye out as he walked, making sure that he wouldn't miss any clues. As John rounded another turn in the bend, he paused. He thought he had seen something in the trees off to his left, but he couldn't be sure. Deciding that it was worth investigating further, John wandered off the path a bit and toward the trees. As John approached closer, he saw that the bark of the tree was marred by what appeared to be knife slashes.

"Could just be an animal," said John as he studied the marks, "But it wouldn't hurt to take a picture of it in case it proves useful later."

John snapped a picture of the marks. As he tucked his mobile back in his pocket, he noticed a piece of paper flapping in the cool breeze that was billowing about him. It was caught between two branches, trying desperately to free itself and fly away. John wandered further from the path as he went to retrieve the paper. He picked it up, and saw that it was torn; the other part of the message was missing. John closely studied the red writing that was in front of him. There was only a single sentence on the paper which read:

_The Midnight Hour is close at hand._

John gulped. What did that mean? He quickly tucked the scrap of paper into his pocket, and stood up.

"Time to move on, John," he said to himself, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

He quickly turned back to walk toward the path, soon arriving back at it. He picked his way along the path at a faster pace, desperate to break free of this forest sooner rather than later.

In his haste, he didn't notice someone watching him from the place he had just left.


End file.
